Witchblood
by Zeroraid
Summary: "Yharnam, the city of blood ministration, that's where you were born. Well at least, that's when you were supposed to be born. You were killed before you got the chance. Not to worry, I'll fix that; all I need is a contract sighed and sealed. What do you say, interested in seeing how your life would have played out, Witchboy?" Prototype story.
1. Chapter 1: The Contractor

**This is an idea that popped into my head a while back and I finally around to writing it. That said it's more or less a prototype of hopefully something bigger.**

**Hope you enjoy.**

* * *

"What do we have here? A first timer huh? Well come on in, take a seat and let me get a good look at you."

…

"Oh yes it's definitely your first time here - I can tell just by looking at you."

…

"Me? You wanna know who I am? … well that's a bit of a tough question. I'm like you in a sense; I'm not really anyone. I'm neither living, dead nor undead. Like you I don't even have a name, but everyone who comes here just calls me the Contractor. That said, what do you say we get down to business?"

…

"Well I *am* a contractor, it's what I do, I make contracts with others, be they living, dead, undead, or like us. If you forge a contract with me I can grant you anything. Money, women, a chance to turn back time, limitless power, name it. I can give it to you. For a short while anyway."

…

"Well you didn't think I'd forge potentially reality warping contracts that last forever did you? No they're absolutely temporary. They exist so long as the contract is in effect. Soon as they're done, well, everything goes back to normal, everything in reality resets to the moment the contract was first made, everything you did gets voided and none are the wiser. So what do you say, interested in forging a contract with me?

…

Haha, I figured as much. Now I already know what you want, I want you to say it. It's no fun any other way."

…

There we go, that wasn't too hard. Now…?"

…

"What do I get out of it? … Well that's simple, and nothing for you to really worry about. Now if you're worried about me taking your life or anything when the contract expires, don't worry I don't do that. Now than… where to send you though… Ah I know; since this is your first time I'll roll back time and let you live the life you wee denied. In the world you were denied. Which just so happens to be~"

…

"Yharnam? Your from Yharnam… Hahahahahaha! Oh my sides, no wonder they killed you and your mom! Hahahahahahaha! I'm sorry, I'm sorry.; couldn't help myself. Still Yharman..."

…

"Oh there's nothing *_too*_ bad about Yharnam. It's actually pretty nice this time of year. Usually a quiet place too, especially when the sun goes down. Don't grow too used to that though, it's always quiet before the screaming starts. After all, Yharnam's long become home to beasts that like wandering about, and some of em happen looking like everyday folks. Ohh~ scary thought isn't it?"

…

"… What? Your not scared? Hahaha! Course your not scared, at least not yet. You've never been there after all, you've never been *anywhere* for that matter. Well, let's change that, shall we?

I'll fix things so you don't croak to early like you should, that way you can see what Yharnam's really like. Course if I'm gonna do that, you're gonna need a couple things first."

…

Of course we'll need the contract written up for starters , but to sigh that you need a name, what would you like to be called?"

...

"Ah~ the nameyour mother would have given you, alright now sign here... and here... and here. Alright that's done. Now, take this. *This* is going to be proof of our contract."

…

"Now that that's done, let's get this show started shall we?"

...

"Oh and before I forget; our contract will end under one or two conditions. You die, or the proof of our contract breaks while in your possession. Simple right? Good. Now then... hows the old bloke say it? Ah~ whatever happens you may think it all a mere bad dream."


	2. Chapter 2: The Hunter

Yharnam.

Truth be told it wasn't too uncommon for screaming to be heard in the streets late at night; what with the beasts and the demented crawling about. Tonight was no different; the screaming filtering out the back alleys and across the rooftops. It made a perfect background static for the woman wandering the streets, using the screams of the gutted and the flayed to hide the noise she was making tonight. She kept walking; down streets and down pathways, ducking out of sight and hiding as if death itself was lurking about.

In Yharnam, that might damn well of been possible.

All the while the bell tied to her wrist keep ringing. Keeps releasing a chime to alert a select few to its presence as the call was being made.

Where were they though? Of course; they were busy tonight, after all the great church bells had been rung yet again, and the purge was in effect. Men and women had locked their doors and the streets were growing caked in blood and fat. She had not been lucky enough to make it home tonight, and because of that they had locked her out, and less the sun rose they would not let her back inside.

If she died well… she'd be out of luck.

They both would.

Stopping to catch her breath she looks down, her attention focused on the bundle carrying her baby boy and tries to calm him. He's young, barely a week and he was afraid. Afraid of things he did not understand. "It's ok… it's ok. The church will let us in. We'll be safe there." She tries to either convince herself or the newborn in her hands. The Church was a safe place, they allowed sanctuary even when the bell was rung, so long as blood wasn't spilled in the church.

Still, till she reached the church she'd have to move, let her steps carry her throughout the winding labyrinthine streets till she reaches the church grounds.

So she does, she keeps moving, keeps hiding, as she makes her way.

When she reaches a dead end though she curses to herself, finding the path blocked by bricks and coffins. They were always around even when she didn't need a quick turn she aims to retrace her steps, stopping only when she sees the fire coming from the corner and hears the dogs barking. Trapped she steps back, bumping into one of the many coffins that plague the city and without much hesitation she dumps her child in one, hiding them from sight and let the stench of the dead cover them. She closes the lip, leaves it just open enough to let air flow in so they won't suffocate. When she turns she draws a knife, a small little thing barely reaching up to her elbow. She'd never used it in a fight, but she knew how to use it. After all sometimes a man needed a reminder of what was at stake when he threatened a Woman of Pleasure. Looking ahead she saw the men and their mutts wandering past, turning only when the dog caught whiff of her and growled. What she heard leave their lips sounded was less of a man more of a beast.

Some laughed.

Some growled.

They all came for her.

He watched everything unfold, watches men become beasts. He watches a woman make a valiant yet pathetic attempt at fighting a small army of men and mutts. He watches one scream, holding what remained of their lower selves, the parts of them that would never again feel the pleasures of a woman. He watched the rest come at her, watched them steal her knife and prepare to beat her half to death. That attempt ends when a three scream, The fourth lies silent swaying as the wind blows through the hole where their heart once was. The other three are missing something; an arm, a chunk of rib and intestine tract. The dead-end wall holds what was taken, skewered by a barbed spear of the size of an arm. He smiles as the beasts-like men turn, the sound of footsteps drawing them away from their prey and to the other end of the street. "There you are, almost didn't make it, eh?"

At the end of the street lies a Hunter as they step forward a quiver of barbed spears on their waist and three in their hand that they load into the barrels of a hunter's harpoon gun.

The men that had become beast offer no words, and the rabid mutts that serve them simply charge the Hunter, ignorant to the fact the most dangerous predator their eyes allowed them to comprehend was before them. He smiles, and the Hunter aims.

The first mutt is thrown back as it's head is impaled and it the spear melts into the ground. The barrel of the gun rotates, and the second leaps. It becomes one with the wall a moment later, jerking, howling before falling limp hanging like a lantern. Again the barrel rotates. The third mutt gets close and leaps, and finds the barrel of the gun pushed down it's throat. The hunter forces the mutt onto it's back and pulls. Three shots, and three dogs are slain. He pulls the barrel back and lets the rest of the harpoon slide out the barrel. Before dipping it into his quiver and reloads.

The men try to stop him, charging they swing axes and swords and pitchforks. The Hunter moves, he is not like lightning, rather he is an angry wind. He tackles one to the ground impales them on an offered harpoon, and then turns. His hand reaches for his back, and pulls his weapon.

The weapon is simple, for it bore no teeth or fangs. It a sword yet not a sword; It is to big and to fat to be a blade, it's edge to round. It could not slash or cut, rather it chopped and crushed. It was the Sword-Mace, and a strike from the weapon broke bones and ruptured organs with frightening ease.

With this fat weapon the Hunter broke through the horde of men. He crushed them under the weapons weight, made limbs that would never work again. He left no survivors, save the woman of pleasure who he knelt before like a knight of old.

"Are you alright?" He asks behind his hood and mask s she nods,

"Yes, thank you hunter." She whispers ashe helps her to her feet. Her clothes are ruined, but that's fine. He offers her his cloak to cover her and she gladly, graciously accepts. As soon as she's covered though she moves, running to the coffins and search for her baby. He's fine, thank whatever God remained to look out for them. She turns to the hunter, and finds that he's right behind her. He reaches, not for her or her baby the harpoon as thick as the arm of a man. After a few, strained tries, he pulls it from its bed of brick. He loads into his sword, locks it in place with a click that sounds more like the heartbeat of the clocktower. For a moment she wonders, wonders what he would need a harpoon that thick for, and as quickly as the thought comes it passes.

She doesn't want the answer. Not now, and perhaps not ever.

"Where were you headed?"

"The church." The woman whispers as she looks to her baby. "It's safe there."

"It should be." The hunter admits as he starts walking, collecting his discarded harpoons and returns them to his quiver. "Come on, I'll guide you there." The woman simply nodded as she approached the Hunter and followed him down the streets. She was close to him, but at the same time he seemed so far away. He reeked of blood, death and embers. Though his clothes were black she saw the light shimmer where blood was sprayed. He was shorter than her, if not by much, and his voice was rough when he spoke earlier.

She was near as they walked, far as he fought, clearing the streets during the purge.

It frightened her and drew her like a moth to an infernal flame. As the bell tolled, and the purge was in effect, men became monsters and all who were locked in the streets were the prey they fed upon. At the same time the Purge brought the Hunters, who made prey of monstrous men. They did not hunt the women of pleasure, they did not hunt the gutter-rats. The hunted the monsters, and for that the denizens of Yharman owed them much.

Though she doubted many would admit such a thing

In less than an hour he lead her to the church, striking down everyone that crossed their path. She thanked him the only way she knew how to thank a hunter. She stabbed herself with a needle, and she gave him her blood, which in Yharnam was more precious than liquid gold or depleted silver.

There was a reason Yharmin was named the city of Blood Ministration.

"Thanks." He muttered loudly enough for her to hear as he pockets the vial of whore's blood. "Stay safe." He tells her before walking away. He almost doesn't hear the words she says as the church doors are pushed open for him, but he hears them nonetheless.

"Good hunting."

He returns to the streets with a sigh rubs his throat and speaks. "That's four." His voice changes, becoming lighter and more natural. "Four out of who knows how many are still out here." He mutters.

"Witchboy!" He twitches and turns his head, his attention shifting to the crossing street as he finds another making a gesture , seeming to praise the absent sun. The hunter, the Witchboy just stares before looking elsewhere and walking off, his intent to pretend he never saw the other. "Hey get back here!" They rush after him, walking by his side as they smile. "Hey don't ignore me. It's not polite."

What do you want Contractor?" The Witchboy asks in flat annoyance. "Do you need something?"

"A guy can't visit?" He smiles, as he always does. "I'm just taking in the sights, seeing how your doing."

"Right." The Witchboy replies. "What do you really want?"

"Hey i wasn't lying, I just wanted to visit. I mean you never call, you never write." He feigns hurt. "I thought we had something special."

"I've been busy." Was the Witchboy's simple reply.

"I bet. So how's life." The Contractor gets a sigh. "Difficult right, not what you expected. Well sorry, but your not that lucky." They pause. "Course if you want a silver spoon in your mouth I can fix that." He admits. "We just need to end this contract and write up a new one." That gets him a glare.

"No." The Witchboy states, his voice again becoming rough and hard. "I'm *not* giving up this life." He grips something under his cowl. "It may be shit, but it's my life. And you won't take it from me." He reaches for his blade and his Contractor just laughs.

"Easy, easy I'm not here to take it."He admits as he points a finger at the Witchboys chest. "If I wanted it, I would have taken it already." He admits. "Still, it's been 18 years now, aren't you getting a little bored with this life?" He leans forward, ignoring the threat of the Sword-Mace looming over him. He brings his face close, almost to kissing distance. "If you want, I give you a new one."

"I'm fine with this life." The Witchboy states as his counterpart chuckles, reaches under his hood and ruffles his hair.

"Oh well." The Contractor states as he leans back. "Oh you should lose the batman voice. Personally I don't find it scary."

"Who's Batman?"

"Ah~ another life, another time." The Contractor states as he stretches, raising his hands above his head as he turns his gaze skyward, staring at the moon with a smirk upon his face. "And it *will* be another time. I have to go."

"Why?" He's not sure why he asks, but he does. The contractor just shrugs as he starts to backpedal.

"Eyes are starting to open." He states as he turns. "And I can't risk being seen yet."

"Eyes are starting to open?" The Witchboy asks his retreating counterpart. "What does that mean?"

"Open *your* eyes, and you may find out." The Contractor states as he disappears down an alley. "Or not, it's your call Witchboy, see ya."

The Witchboy just stays silent keeping his hand on the handle of his Sword-Mace, and turns to the moon in confusion. It does not speak, or offer any form of answer, merely shining down on him and the city. After a few moments he turns, his attention drifting back into this accursed city as he starts walking into the nightmare that was Yharman.

The night was still young, and there was prey meant to be slaughtered.


	3. Chapter 3: The Night Ends

The night drags on. Like some outer forgotten being had frozen the moon in the sky and ordered it stay put. Yet eventually it's ethereal grip finally wavers.

Finally.

_*Finally*_ the dawn breaks, and the bell tolls to signal the end of the long night. In the night that seemed to never end, the Witchboy had hunted, he has killed, and he has saved. Six lives he has saved, yet there were eight more he failed to reach.

Still as the dawn breaks he greets it, he pulls down his hood, letting it become one with his cowl. He pulls down his mask and takes in the fresh air. He looks to the sun, and watches it rise over the horizon, looks around to ensure he's alone and raises his arms in gratitude. He praises the sun, the light bringer, the untouched fire. The sun dawns on him and a new day, and because of that he's grateful.

Grateful he survived another long night.

When he lowers his arms he again looks around, making certain that he was still alone. He scratches his head in embarrassment and moves, walks towards the lower forgotten districts of Yharnam.

For now no one sees him; those that lie awake clean the blood from the walls and the fat from the streets. The ashes of the burned are swept away. In hours the streets would lie cleansed on last nights activities. To be honest it frightens him.

The cleansing is almost systematic, routine and *_natural*_. There have been too many nights where the blood has decorated the streets, and to man nights where dogs feast on the carrion flesh of those left behind. There is no joy in the cleansing, there is no pain nor sorrow. They do it as though it is a facet of life, a simple act of existence, like moving through air. They do not acknowledge it, but they still do it regardless.

He reaches his abode, a home that has been his for the longest now. It is quiet, but not empty. There is furniture, and trinkets of pagan ideology; his mothers. She has vanished three seasons ago, disappearing into town and never returning. He wasn't sure what took her; the Beast Plague or the Healing Church. In the end it did not matter. He was alone, mostly anyway. His only company were the rats that visited, obeyed him like the trained if feral dogs.

He reaches into the sealed cupboards and grabs bread. As expected the rats are already lining up when he offers it to them, and he takes just enough for himself. He finds the coach and settles in.

He's tired.

He's always tired; countless nights are spent hunting in the streets. Countless nights he has spent coating himself in the blood of others, and listening to the ravenous call of beasts and screams of men. To many nights has he spent not sleeping, and to many nights has he swung the Sword-Mace and overtaxed his body.

He looks to the weapon and takes a breath. The Sword-Mace, Beastbreaker. It had been bestowed upon him by the little pale men, the Messengers. They gave him the Beastbreaker the night his mother hadn't returned. They gave no words, but he knew what they wanted. To take up the blade and slay the breasts.

It was that... or perish without protection.

He took the blade, the harpoon gun - Nailbiter, and the quiver of thirty dime sized harpoons.

And so he hunted, and hunted, and hunted. For three seasons he hunted the beasts that plagued Yharnam, not once has he died, not once has he gone to The Dream. For that fact, he does not thank luck of whatever gods look down upon Yharnam. He thanks fear; fear keeps him sharp, tells him to run when he is outmatched. Though fear he has never gone to The Dream. For to go to The Dream, means he must die. And he remembers what - even after all these years - what the price of dying spells. The contract expires when he dies, and through that he'll be unmade. He cannot go to The Dream, yet at the same time, he wants to.

Still, strange as it may sound, he dreams of The Dream. A moonkissed plain of flowers, and a lonely building. He dreams of a man, bound to a chair, who dreams a restless dream. He dreams of woman sitting, whose finger is ever tapping. Patiently she waits, for him, or perhaps for another he does not know. But in the end the dream shows him The Dream.

Sighing, the Witchboy closes his eyes, and rolls over on his couch. He's tired and needs to sleep. Tonight the bell shall toll again, and he'll need to be ready.

Till then he dreams; and in his dreams he sees a world a great crags and arch trees. Of immortal dragons and lords of fire. He dreams of men who sacrifice themselves to feed an eternal flame.

It is not a pleasant dream.


	4. Chapter 4: The Morning Breaks

Few hours pass before the Witchboy wakens, and as he does he washes the blood from his garbs and sets them to dry before a pit of fire. It is something he does with reservation; he's scared of the flames, it is part of an instinctual thing, like a mouse fearing the shadow of the hawk. It is also part deserved. He remembers; he remembers the flames. In another life - one denied to him, he remembers the caress of an inferno and the choking smoke. The pain that etched itself into his still unconscious mind. It's carved there, like a scribe had written on stone and it refuses to leave him. He remembers, and always will remember the flames.

With a shaking breath he turns away, hugs himself as he seeks out clean garments. When he does he leaves his home, leaves Beastbreaker but takes the Nailbiter and it's quiver and faces the remainder of his day.

He returns to town, takes it all in. After 18 years it has not changed, it still reeks of blood and death, and metal. The streets are cleaned but they remember what was sweat away in the early dawn. Deep in their figurative bones lies memories of countless horror filled nights. Beneath them, though they struggle to pierce the stone, are the plants and the weeds. They grow well nurtured on spilled blood.

As he wanders the Witchboy sees everything in the city has all but returned to normal. There is talk about the hunt and mad dogs and men. It is shameful though, that he cannot fully tell who is still man or beast. To many nights has he seen men become monsters, afflicted by the beast Plague. To many nights has he spent, hunting both man and beast… and too many times he has denied his wants in order to continue the hunt.

There is a saying he remembers, who whispered it he can not recall but that is besides the point. The saying goes: "_There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter._" It is a messed up yet true statement. The Witchboy has hunted to many men in the night, preyed upon them like that which hunts the wolves and bears.

To many times has he denied to himself that he *_liked* _it.

With a sigh he continues his day, and as he continues, as he shops he hears the words and the curses.

Who died last night?

"My husband didn't come back."

Why did they die?

"Damn those fucking beasts! They pulled her right off the streets!"

Why was this happening?

"I tell you it's its them Hunters fault, they brought this Plague of Beasts upon us."

More words, more curses. Some are lies, some are truths. The Witchboy just listens and moves. Lets them wash over him like water. He goes to the upper districts, and looks around. Lets the sun gaze upon his face as he continues his rounds. He passes closed homes and the windows reflect his image. He is tall yet short, his skin like moonlight, eyes like a rose and his hair like brown rust.

He is Rosa the Witchboy, son to a late "Witch of Yharnam" - a set of women who to this day being purged by the Healing Church for "witchcraft" and pagan healing ways. The healing arts of Blood Ministration were all that Yharnam needed, that was their belief, and they could not more like the Witches of Hemwick to flourish within Yharnam walls.

Still, they had yet to do anything to him, the son of a witch. Whether that was because he was not born a woman -and therefore not a witch, or perhaps it was do to some other unspoken unseen power was debatable.

Rosa pushed that thought aside as he continued, though kept his eyes on the sun. It was still high, but he felt the arch, and he knew what that eventually would mean.

"Don't worry about it. Not now." He mutters. "The days is still young, and the fighting is over." For now anyway. He passes a group, slips through the crowd, and comes to a stop. He smells it, and turns. See's another turning to look at him. She is a woman, who stinks like he does. Stinks of lingering blood and death.

She is a Hunter, though ally or enemy is up for debate.

They look at one another, quietly sizing the other up, and reading the other like the title of a book and then they part ways. Rosa releases a breath he wasn't aware he held as he looks at his basket. It's almost full. And his rounds were almost done. He'd have to return soon, clean his blade once more and sharpen his harpoons. He'd need them tonight after all.

As for the woman? Something told him he'd see her tonight as well.


End file.
